When I was six

When I was six fine art meant staring at the board
 my aunt would draw on and I would trace with my eyes.
Remembering how to draw it, without a repeat.
Finally, learning how to color in the lines with my 1st grade
class, but i already was two steps ahead and was proud.
Finishing my piece of color without a dab of color out of the line.
And, i showed it off quite well.
Yes, i bragged when I was six about my drawings.
The puppy running in the field that looked real in
other's eyes, the dream house that everyone wanted,
and the life that i brought to my pictures. I was like
an Einstine to art. I was that good.
My teacher staring and smiling at the homemade card
I put together for her before she was off to my married.
"I did all by myself Ms. Melody, this card is origional. "
At six years old I felt on top of the world with my drawings.
I also shocked my class saying "No i don't wanna be an artist.
I wanna work with Shamu when i grow up."
Back then, that was my passion. Not to pick up a paint brush,
or a pen to draw. Back then, my passion was to my in water with one
of the most spetacular animals in the world.
Fine art to me when i was siz is a memory I couldn't forget because,
being good at something no one else was at six years old was like being god.
And, every picture i drew was a little piece of my memory of me.

Violence Poem

Violence is who she is

She speaks it,

Hears it,

Lives it,

Feels it.

Her words speak death.

Speeches of negative comments,

Comments of her born blood.

Or, from outsiders, judgemental people.

She hears violence:

The low wispers of students,

the screams in her mind.

She lives it.

Living in a prison_

But, to us, it's a home.

Living in fear and hoplessness,

living to the sounds of strikes, the poundings of her master.

But, to us, that's our mother.

Living is not what she wants.

She feels violence:

The cuts and brusies,

The blood that stains her clothes.

She feels her heart losing its beat.

The throbbing pains,

The tears she wipes,

The friend she wishes she had.

She Speaks It,

Hears It,

Lives It,

Feels It.

Violence is who she is

But, not who she wants to be.

7 ways of looking at Regret

Wanting to take a stepback
but forced to move faster in front
Knowin of the storm ahead of you.

It stalks you
the sickening feel of
aching butterflies in your stomach.

With its obnoxious buzzing
it makes the noise unbarable,
and the ackward feeling when it touches you.
That little fly,
it needs to move on.

Two pairs of eyes,
that feel like a million.
Staring in shock,
Disappointment,
Broken hearts.

Hard breathing in your bed.
Slowly, you start to forget.
But, then remember you are
not the only person in this world.

Nails chewed from the anger,
buliding inside of you:
Anger you have only seen in horror movies.
You say, please, don't turn me into this.

An orb of a memory,
A memory that made this happen:
The birth of a disaster,
The birth of a reputation.